


Better Than Gold

by abp



Series: Ski-Crossed Lovers [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Fluff, M/M, Skiing AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abp/pseuds/abp





	Better Than Gold

Combeferre is twenty-one and he’s on top of the world. Well, maybe not—he didn’t take _gold_ after all. But winning two medals at the Olympics isn’t shabby; he’s _supposed_ to feel like he’s on top of the world. Honestly, though? As proud as he is of what he did, he feels… a little lost now that it’s over. Without him really noticing, the Olympics wrapped up and someone hit the reset button on his life. And now he’s back to the start of another four year cycle.

Only he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. This time four years ago, he was high on the thrill of his seventeenth place finish in the biathlon and doubling down on the idea of skiing even _more_. Now, all he can think is: _how long until skiing isn’t enough?_

He smiles for the cameras and gives interviews and pretends that he’s not having a quarter-life crisis.

**

Combeferre is twenty-two when he meets the love of his life. Of course, he doesn’t know it at the time.

It’s the first Worlds competition in the post-Olympics season and Combeferre feels good about his chances. He’s been good in practice lately and gold isn’t out of the question, even with the fierce competition here today. With so many important things going on, he barely gives a second glance to the scrawny seventeen year old skiing in the heat before his. Really, he only notices the kid when he crushes it and throws off his helmet at the bottom of the slope, whooping and jumping as soon as his skis are off.

Combeferre can’t help smiling as he watches this kid who looks more excited than Combeferre was when he won his Olympics silver. It’s cute.

He sees the kid again in the final heat, looking determined. Combeferre’s in the spot next to him in the lineup and can hear him muttering quietly to himself, “Just ski, just ski, just ski.” Combeferre doesn’t think it’s normal to want to give your competition a hug, but this boy with curly hair and unbridled enthusiasm has warmed his heart.

He tunes the quiet chant out and focuses on the course in front of him, lining up in his gate. Right now he has a race to win.

Afterwards, while Combeferre’s receiving his first Worlds gold medal and the enthusiastic kid is still looking stunned and happy with his bronze, Combeferre makes a note of the other skier’s name: Courfeyrac. He has a feeling he’ll be seeing him again.

**

“Just ski,” Combeferre says, three years later in a different gate, at a different Worlds competition. Courfeyrac is older now and looks it. Where he was puppy-cute before, he’s devastatingly handsome now, with perfect cheekbones and a smile that could melt stone. Combeferre tries not to notice because there are more important things to focus on, like winning the competition he’s been told is his to lose. How embarrassing would it be to lose in the first trial because he was distracted by an attractive competitor?

He pays close attention to Courfeyrac’s runs in between his own and groans when Courfeyrac loses a heat. He drops into the small final to eventually take seventh, which has to sting after the amazing season he’s been having. And yeah, okay, Combeferre’s been paying attention for a while.

Courfeyrac’s done well enough to make the Olympic team, though, and that’s what matters this year. Combeferre flashes a thumbs up when he catches his eye at the end. Immediately after he feels the weight of what an awkward nerd he is and purposely avoids talking to Courfeyrac after the medal ceremony.

**

“You can do this,” Combeferre tells his mirror self. He can sense Enjolras rolling his eyes from his bed. “He’s new to the team and you have a ton in common, he’ll be grateful to have someone show him around.” Combeferre finishes putting on his rollerblades. “Just ask him to dinner if you bump into him. You can do this.”

As reassuring as his pep talk is, Combeferre grabs a book on his way out of the room. There’s nothing more calming than a good book to hide behind.

**

It’s surprising how little time it takes for Combeferre to go from awkward and nervous to completely comfortable with Courfeyrac. Combeferre knows he’s nerdy and obsessive. He knows that he’s hard to talk to if the subject isn’t skiing or astronomy or whatever his interest of the month is. He doesn’t keep up with tv shows or movies the way other people do.

But Courfeyrac doesn’t care. Courfeyrac has his phone out to show Combeferre clips of whatever film he references without getting annoyed. He listens to everything Combeferre rambles about patiently—and usually with _interest_. And he might be even more obsessed with skiing than Combeferre.

It’s… wonderful. Easy.

Combeferre never wants to let go.

**

The Olympics are an entirely different experience this time. He wants Courfeyrac to do well so badly it hurts. He wants to see that jumping, whooping boy on the podium now that the endless grin will be aimed at him.

“Hey, want to go for another practice run?” Courfeyrac pairs his question with a perfect smile that leaves him swooning internally.

“Yeah, of course. Let’s work on your turns.”

Combeferre just has to remember that Courfeyrac’s still competition, no matter how much he wants to kiss the kind of smile Courfeyrac would have with a gold around his neck.

**

The qualifying heats aren’t _easy_ , exactly, but Combeferre isn’t unsettled by them the way Courfeyrac is. That’s not exactly surprising; what’s surprising is how it flips by the final heat.

“You haven’t puked yet,” Combeferre says as they move towards their gates, trying to stop the anxiety crawling into his chest. He does his best to ignore the repeating, y _ou have to win gold this time, you have to,_ in his head. 

Courfeyrac snorts—a puzzlingly adorable sound. “No. And I think I’ll make it through the event vomit-free after all.”

“Good,” Combeferre nods, distracted.  

“Hey.” Combeferre startles when Courfeyrac nudges him gently. “Whatever happens, everyone knows you’re the best.”

Combeferre laughs, feeling a flutter in his chest for a very different reason than anxiety. “I think there are a couple guys up here that might disagree with that.”

“Well, they’re wrong.” Courfeyrac’s voice is touchingly earnest and his smile makes Combeferre feel a little wobbly in a good way.

He takes a deep breath, matching that smile. “Good luck, Courf.”

His heart skips a beat when he hears, “just ski” in response. Combeferre lines up at his gate, a moment of warmth and calm taking over. He can do this—and so can Courfeyrac. There isn’t time to say anything else, but he winks at Courfeyrac before they take their marks.

**

The world goes quiet when Courfeyrac skis toward him and falls away entirely as soon as Courfeyrac kisses him. Their lips are chapped and cold and the position is awkward, skis still on, but Combeferre would give away the gold medal that isn’t even around his neck yet to keep this moment forever.

Combeferre wraps his arms around Courfeyrac and kisses him a second time before the rest of the world comes back and he realizes exactly what they just did. He waves at the camera and is pleased with how smoothly he asks Courfeyrac out.

**

“How does it feel to be the first openly gay athlete in a ski event?”

 _It doesn’t feel like anything_ , Combeferre doesn’t say. “I’m bisexual, actually,” he does say.

That opens an entirely new wave of questions that he dismisses with a smile.

“How long have you been dating your teammate, Courfeyrac?”

Combeferre does the mental math and debates whether it counts as dating yet. He smiles instead. “We’d like to keep some element of privacy in our relationship for now. Sorry, that’s all the time I have for questions. Thanks.”

**

Combeferre has his parents and sisters waiting for him at the finish of the biathlon, but Courfeyrac is the first to wrap him in a hug.

“Double golds—you’re insane. I can’t believe it.”

Combeferre forgets that he’s sweaty and gross and leans against Courfeyrac, laughing and smiling harder than he ever has. “No kiss this time?”

Courfeyrac laughs and squeezes him tighter. “Alright. For the fans,” he winks, then pulls apart enough to kiss Combeferre. They ignore Combeferre’s sisters’ teasing.

**

Combeferre assumes winning two golds and a boyfriend would mean absolute bliss after the Olympics, but he’s hit with the same quarter-life crisis out of nowhere.

Courfeyrac notices, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, an annoyingly cute wrinkle appearing on his forehead.

Combeferre hestitates, but decides to be honest. “I’m getting older,” he says. “I can’t do this forever.”

“You’re not _that_ old,” Courfeyrac tells him, which is true. Combeferre knows that, but he also knows that he aches a little more after competitions every year. “Is there something else you want to do?”

Combeferre gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Well, we’ll figure it out together, then,” Courfeyrac smiles, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

Combeferre feels something lighten in his chest. It’s funny how a single sentence can change everything so completely.

**

It only takes a year for the two of them to move in together and two years for Combeferre to finish the degree he started before he took a break from school to focus on skiing. Things are perfect.

“So, when _I_ win, you’re paying for dinner tonight,” Courfeyrac teases as the two of them get ready in their hotel room. The event starts in a few hours, but they have warm ups just before.

“Yeah right,” Combeferre says with more confidence than he has. Courfeyrac’s only beaten him once before, but it’s getting harder and harder to win.

“Just wait,” Courfeyrac says, leaning up to kiss him. “I feel good about today.”

**

Even Combeferre doesn’t know what happened for sure until he looks at the playback on TV later. One second he’s skiing, his focus on the turns ahead and how best to navigate them without going too wide. The next, he’s tangled with another skier, tumbling down the hill in a mess of limbs and pain.

Combeferre’s disoriented when he stops falling. He quickly becomes aware of the excruciating pain in his right leg. He breathes through gritted teeth and stays where he is, uncertain about whether he could stand without throwing up—or stand at all.

Time means nothing to him at the moment, but it seems like a long time before the medic reaches him and even longer before Courfeyrac’s by his side looking frightened and close to tears.

“I’m fine,” Combeferre says, even though he feels woozy. “Don’t worry.”

Courfeyrac gives a sad attempt at a laugh and finds his hand, squeezing it. “I’ll stop worrying when the doctor tells me I can.”

Combeferre squeezes his hand back and only speaks up when they start to move him. “Wait—Fey. Don’t leave the race.”

“ _What_?”

“You have to stay,” he says, turning to look at him with the fiercest expression he can manage. “You have to _win_.”

“I’m not—“

“ _You are._ ” He says this with the finality of a man who could make it possible and not one of a man strapped to a stretcher about to be dragged off a ski course. But Combeferre wasn’t about to get in the way of Courfeyrac’s career. He had to stay. “The longer you argue, the longer it takes to get to the hospital. Please, just do it.”

Courfeyrac looks at him incredulously. “How do people think you’re reasonable?” he says, a little exasperated but smiling ever so slightly. “I love you and I’ll be with you soon. With gold.”

**

“I should retire,” Combeferre says, not for the first time. Courfeyrac doesn’t even stop to look at him. “My leg, my hip—it’ll never be the same. I’ve missed so much training time. I’m not…” Unbeatable. That’s what it is. He’s been the favorite for so long, it’s hard to come back knowing that the top of the podium isn’t his anymore and might not be again.

Courfeyrac sits beside him on the locker room bench, taking his face in hand. “Ferre, we have gone through this a hundred times,” he says with more patience than Combeferre could expect. “We both know that you’ll regret it forever if you don’t _try_. It’s not going to be easy. And yeah, maybe you’ll _lose_ more than you did before. But you’ll regret not trying.”

Combeferre sighs and Courfeyrac wraps an arm around his shoulder. “I want to be the best.”

Courfeyrac smiles as he presses a kiss to Combeferre’s cheek. “Then be the best.”

He has to think that Courfeyrac’s already won that title.

**

Most people never compete in a single Olympics, but here Combeferre is at his fourth. It’s different this time, with Courfeyrac by his side and the public obsessively focused on their relationship. It’s not bad, but different. He knows this will likely be his last Olympics—at least in the ski cross event—and he’s going to make the most of it.

**

Combeferre finishes a fraction of a second behind Courfeyrac, but he can’t manage to feel disappointed when he’s _so damn proud._ In an instant, their helmets are on the ground and Combeferre is wrapping Courfeyrac in a hug.

“You did it,” Combeferre is grinning. He pulls back just enough to kiss Courfeyrac—everyone’s expecting something to rival four years ago. He can give them that.

“I can’t believe it,” Courfeyrac says in wonder, as if he hasn’t beaten Combeferre in races before.

“I can,” Combeferre tells him, honestly. “Guess I owe you dinner now, huh?”

Courfeyrac’s smile is uncontainable. Combeferre wants to kiss it off his face. But first…

“There’s something you can do for me, though.”

“What?” Courfeyrac’s forehead wrinkles at the shift in tone. Combeferre knows he can see the minute stiffness and nervous shifting. Courfeyrac always sees through him.

“Marry me?” He aims for cool and casual, but it comes out a little choked.

Courfeyrac makes a gasp of a noise. “Are you serious?”

Combeferre nods and nearly falls over a moment later as Courfeyrac throws himself into another tight hug.

“Yes. Yes _of course_ ,” Courfeyrac is laugh-crying into his shoulder, and Combeferre can’t help joining him as he squeezes back. “You’re so ridiculous and _I love you_.”

Combeferre knows the cameras didn’t catch what they said and he has to wonder what the viewers at home think is happening as they cling to each other with tears in their eyes. Most of all, he knows that five years from now, ten years, twenty, they’ll look back at this footage together and see it. The end of one chapter and the start of a new chapter _together_.


End file.
